


Bedside Manners

by Binsfeld



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binsfeld/pseuds/Binsfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders is a wreck after the Qunari invasion, struggling to keep his clinic afloat. Help arrives unexpectedly to take the load off.</p><p>(Done for the DA Kink Meme. Rated T more for language than anything else.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedside Manners

 

The aftershock of the Qunari attack was felt throughout Kirkwall. It took days to clear the streets of bodies. Guards and Templars put their differences aside momentarily to get the grim business done, and residents of Dark Town and the Alienage leapt at the chance to earn a few coins washing the blood from the stones.

 

But long after all the graves were covered and all the fires were put out, the lantern in Dark Town remained lit far into the night, often into the next morning.

 

There were even more wounded than dead in the city, and most of them couldn't afford potions. The Chantry was full, made into a temporary infirmary, but refugees and runaway mages dared not step foot where they might be spotted, no matter how bad the injury.

 

By the end of the fifth day Anders was a wreck.

 

One of the apostates had helped for a day or so, then had mysteriously disappeared. Anders hoped it was because the boy had decided to leave Kirkwall in the confusion, and that he hadn't instead been carted off to the Circle. There was no way of knowing, however, and he was too busy and exhausted to spare the time to worry.

 

His body was beginning to complain about the abuse he was putting it through. The long hours were bad enough, but he was tapping into his reserves now to get so much healing done. His hands shook constantly from a near-overdose of lyrium potions, and he was often jolted awake out of much-needed snatches of sleep by the pained cry of a patient. He was going through the motions, driven by a dull stubbornness he thought had long been beaten out of him. Grim and worn out, he barely remembered to get a cup of water and some bread down before collapsing on his cot whenever he got a few spare moments.

 

There was a whispered warning in his mind, a faint echo of Justice, perhaps. It warned him of the consequences of his actions. But what else could he do? Turn these people away and let them die in their homes? The only reason he ate at all lately was because grateful families brought him what little food they could spare as thanks.

 

The cry of a child had him rolling automatically out of his cot at dawn of the sixth day, his body responding out of habit even if he was only partially awake. Eyes glued shut, feet clumsy with exhaustion, he stumbled out of the back room to check on his patients. He banged into the side of a table hard enough to jerk his eyes open, and he stood for a moment rubbing his bruised hip and looking around for the source of the cry. He'd sent the last child home yesterday, which meant it had to be a new... His thoughts trailed off and stalled as his tired brain struggled to make sense of what he was looking at.

 

Isabela was seated on a stool with a small child in her lap, his face stuffed with what half a dinner roll-- the type served at the Hanged Man. Isabela had apparently given it to him to shut him up while she

 

Anders blinked a few times, brain still lagging.

 

She was tying off a bandage on the boy's arm with surprising deftness, chattering on about some pirate story or other in a cheery voice that had the boy listening with wide-eyed fascination. Another little boy, his brother by the looks of him, stood chewing on another roll nearby, his burned face glistening from a salve. Finishing with her work, Isabela deposited the child into his mother's arms and spun on her stool to face Anders. She eyed him up and down with an unimpressed arch of her brow, and pursed her lips.

 

“You look like shit.”

 

Anders reached up clumsily to rub at his eyes, too confused to be offended. Slowly the sleep fog on his brain was beginning to lift. “Isabela? What are you doing here?”

 

“Varric was wondering where you were, so I came to check and see if you were still alive and kicking. You've been avoiding us.” She glanced around at the occupied cots. “I see you've been keeping busy.”

 

“If any of you ever bothered to come down to Dark Town, you'd have known how bad things have been here since the attack,” Anders snapped. His exhaustion was doing nothing for his temper. “You can tell Varric I'll be back for cards after I'm done here and not before.”

 

“Right.” She eyed him strangely for a moment, then hopped down from her stool and sashayed out without another word. Fuming, Anders snatched up his bag of lyrium and went to check on his patients.

 

 

 

***

 

“Here.”

 

Anders jerked awake. He'd fallen asleep at one of the tables he saw patients on, and his neck was killing him from the awkward position. He sat up in his stool slowly, feeling older than he was, and stared uncomprehending at the plate hovering just under his nose.

 

The hunger had finally done its work. He was dreaming about food, of all things.

 

Then the smell of mutton and bread hit his nose, bringing him fully awake. His stomach gave a pitiful noise. He grabbed the plate, eyes following the hand offering it, up a muscled arm, all the way to a familiar face.

 

“For the love of Andraste, eat something before you fall down,” Varric said, setting a flagon of wine down on the table. “Rivaini was right. You really do look like sun-baked shit, Blondie.”

 

Anders was about to cram half the food down his throat in one go when guilt brought him up short. How could Varric just give him this in front of these people when they barely had enough to feed themselves?

 

He did a double-take. Every patient who was well enough was tucking into a similar meal.

 

“Courtesy of the Hanged Man,” Varric explained when Anders turned an incredulous stare his way. “And my coin purse. Now eat before I force-feed you. And when's the last time you slept?”

 

Anders mumbled a vague answer, too busy stuffing his face.

 

"Slow down before you choke," Varric admonished, mouth tugging in a grin. "You grow up with wolves or something?"

 

Anders barely heard him. Even as he chewed, his eyes were glued in unblinking disbelief to the slender figure moving across the floor. As he watched, she began singing. It was a little off-key, but sweet, and the elven melody seemed to help the everyday tension of his clinic ease a bit. Merrill was moving around the room, sweeping with a heather brush, attacking cobwebs, dust, and dirt with a vengeance. Anders looked down at the table, then around at the other furniture. Everything was cleaner than it had been since

 

Well, ever. He never had the time to clean. How long had Merrill been here? How long had he been asleep? Interestingly enough, the cleaner surroundings seemed to be having almost as much of an effect on the patients as the food. Many of them looked a little more settled. Others who'd had trouble sleeping were dozing now. He watched Merrill, feeling a flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. How many times had he said unkind things to the girl? Hawke had tried before to point out that despite her faults, Merrill's kind heart was something to be praised. He'd waved this off before, caught up in his own personal feelings about the type of magic she wielded. Thanking her for this unexpected favor was going to be awkward.

 

Anders finished his meal, feeling decidedly better than he had in days. He turned, opening his mouth to offer Varric thanks for the food, but the dwarf was already heading out, mission accomplished. One of the burn patients moaned pitifully, and Anders pulled his mind quickly back to his work. He washed his hands in a bowl and went to check on the cots' occupants.

 

When Merrill was finished with her cleaning spree, she offered Anders a cheery farewell, patted an elf child on the head, and pranced off, claiming Hawke needed her help with a job. By the time Anders turned from his current patient to attempt gratitude, she was gone.

  

 

***

 

When Hawke came hobbling into the clinic the next morning, Anders assumed he was there for a check-up. Anders felt a fleeting moment of guilt. He'd had no time to look in on his friend since shortly after the fight with the Arishok. Hawke was young and strong; he would bounce back from this fight as he had every other. Still, a little moral support probably would have been appreciated, and Anders simply hadn't had the time to tear himself away from his other patients.  
  
He handed a precious bottle of healing potion to the bedraggled woman on his table with firm instructions not to overdose. She clutched it to her chest, wide-eyed at the gift.  
  
Another unexpected bonus, Anders mused, eyes flicking towards the blanket-covered crate in the room's corner as the woman was helped off the table by her sister. He'd found an entire crate of healing potions just inside his clinic's doorway upon awakening in the morning. There'd been no note, no proof of purchase nailed to the top, nothing to indicate who his mysterious benefactor had been.  
  
But suddenly he thought he knew.  
  
"Hawke." He wiped his hands off and approached the man, feeling a tired smile pull at his mouth. "I got your gift."  
  
"Good, I was worried." Hawke grinned back, resting his hip carefully against a table to take the weight off his injured leg. "It wasn't until after I'd had them sent that Aveline pointed out they might get stolen before you even saw them." He shrugged, looking around at the patients with a hint of pity in his eyes. "Sometimes I forget I've actually got coins to spare nowadays. Afraid it's all I can do. I don't have much of a bedside manner, and I don't look nearly as cute in an apron as Merrill."  
  
Anders laughed, the sound startling him a little. He felt like he hadn't laughed in weeks. It did him good to see his friend again. Had it really only been a week or so since he'd been at the mansion? He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the man, needed his unfailing support and strength.  
  
"Fenris sends his apologies, by the way, for the increase in patients." Hawke paused, then shook his head ruefully. "Okay, no he doesn't. But I feel like someone should apologize. He means well, in the depths of his grumpy curdled heart."  
  
"Increase in...?"  
  
Hawke waved a hand to indicate the people on the cots; a majority of them were city elves. "Merrill kept trying to convince the injured elves to come here, but they were afraid to leave the Alienage and wouldn't listen to her. I guess because she's still an outsider to them. There was no room for them at the Chantry, and they can't exactly afford potions or other help. Merrill mentioned it at the Hanged Man, and Fenris said something predictably nasty to her, but..." He scratched at his jaw in a lame attempt to hide a fond smile. "She says the next day he marched into the Alienage and basically bullied the stubborn ones into coming down here. The rest followed. You and he may not get along, but he knows you're probably the best hope these people have."

 

Anders shook his head slowly, watching a malnourished elf pick absently at his bandages. "Some of them were pretty bad off when they arrived," he admitted quietly. "Fenris probably saved their lives."

 

"He's not all bad," Hawke insisted, then rubbed his hands together busily, straightening up. "Well, anyway, I was going stir crazy, and feeling bad that I couldn't come down here after 'Bela said how rough you had it. Anything I can do to help?"

 

Anders smothered a smile with a mock scowl, pointing imperiously. "You can sit your ass on a table and stop walking around so much on that leg."

 

"Aw, c'mon, it barely even hurts any--"

 

"SIT."

 

Hawke sat.

 

“Off with your pants,” Anders commanded.

 

Hawke faltered, eyes darting around the room's other occupants. No one was paying the least bit of attention to him, but a faint embarrassment still lingered. “You could at least offer to buy me dinner first,” he joked in a lame attempt to hide his unease.

 

Any other time the teasing would have likely earned a flirtatious response, but Anders was too mentally worn out to catch on. “Off. I need to check your wound.”

 

With a sigh of long suffering, every movement reluctant, Hawke undid his belt and eased his trousers down to his knees. Anders unwrapped the bandage on the man's thigh, oblivious to his growing discomfort, and made a noise of satisfaction in the back of his throat as he eyed the closed wound judiciously. It had been large and deep-- dangerously so. When he'd first seen it, he'd been fearful Hawke might have permanent muscle damage and might forever walk with a limp. There was still no guarantee he wouldn't. But Anders had started healing him the instant the fight with the Arishok had ended, and it was healing rapidly. It seemed the bed rest had helped with the weakness blood loss had left him with. “You're remembering to take a sip of healing potion every morning?”

 

“Yeah,” Hawke muttered, staring fixedly at the ceiling.

 

“Good.” He rewrapped the bandages. There was probably no need for them anymore, but they would at least keep the trousers from rubbing against and aggravating the wound. “You should be good as new in a few days. I suppose a little exercise is good for you, but don't push yourself. I'm hoping you get out of this without a limp.”

 

“I don't know, I think I'd look pretty classy strutting around with some kind of cane. Maybe one with a silver dragon head on it.” Hawke grinned, standing and hiking up his pants once more. “Though I suppose fighting would be a pain in the ass.”

 

“That reminds me, Merrill said something about helping you with a job yesterday.” Anders leveled him with a stern look. “You're not supposed to be out chasing down bandits and thugs yet, you know.”

 

“I didn't go anywhere,” Hawke insisted. “I talked to some people to get some leads, but Merrill and 'Bela went out and did the dirty work.”

 

“Good.” Anders rubbed at his face, hard, trying to ground himself. While not quite as exhausted as he had been just a few days ago, he still had a lot of sleep to catch up on. Every now and then it felt like he stepped sideways out of reality and could only watch as life went on around him, blurry and disjointed. His eyes swept the crowded clinic with a hint of anxiety that he'd been too stressed out to acknowledge before.

 

Hawke knew his friend well enough to see he was worried. “What's wrong?”

 

Anders shook his head slowly. “I can't turn these people away. Maybe some of the ones who are healing better, but some of them shouldn't be moved yet. Others have nowhere left to go until the Chantry's less full. But this much traffic is going to attract the wrong kind of attention sooner or later. There are too many thugs here in Dark Town. Eventually it's going to occur to them that wounded patients are easy pickings; they might start jumping them on the way here, or be stupid enough to try and rob me. And then there's the Guard. I know they usually steer clear of the area, but there's no guarantee they won't get suspicious and come down here to see what's going on.”

 

“Oh.” Hawke waved a careless hand. “Don't worry about it. Aveline's got it covered.”

 

Anders blinked. His eyelids felt like sandpaper. “What?”

 

“She's got that guy Donnic and a few good sorts from the Guard keeping an eye on the area. I don't know how much she told them, or if they figured a few things out for themselves, but they've been trying to keep this part of Dark Town under enough surveillance to make the gangs think twice about causing trouble. I don't know how much longer she can keep this up before someone starts asking awkward questions, but she's managed to watch your back for the past four or five days.”

 

“Oh,” was all Anders could think to say. His throat felt suspiciously tight. Just a little bit. “Sometimes it's easy to forget I'm not... well... alone anymore.” He shut his mouth, no longer trusting his voice. He was too tired, and it was making him emotional.

 

“You're not the only one,” Hawke assured him. “I feel like I have to constantly beat that fact into Fenris's head.”

 

“Yeah,” Anders said lamely, concentrating on unpacking the potions. Hawke and Fenris sure seemed close for such polar opposites. They were both swordsmen, and that was where the similarities ended. Where Hawke did everything he could to help the mages in the city, even going so far as to stand up to Templars, Fenris had never made his hatred for mages a secret. He was aloof, harsh, and haunted, whereas Hawke was friendly to just about everybody, and seemed to bounce back from tragedy with surprising resilience. It was that hard-headed jovial attitude of his that had convinced Isabela to return with the relic, and was slowly pulling the broody elf out of his prickly shell.

 

But just how close  _were_ they? Hawke asked for Anders's help often, though he secretly suspected it was more out of a need for a healer in the group than anything else. Hawke brought Fenris with him on missions almost as often, and Isabela claimed the two of them liked to sit in that dusty mansion drinking long into the night discussing Maker knew what. Anders squashed the little whisper of unexpected jealousy. He was far too busy with his work with the mage rebellion to dwell on such things. And he knew for a fact that anyone unlucky enough to end up with him would only get hurt in the end. Hawke was always willing to help, but if he knew how angry Anders really was all of the time, if he knew some of the things he planned to do...

 

Would Hawke turn his back on him?


End file.
